


Put Your Hands On Me

by Magnetism_bind



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Comeplay, Domestic Moments, Fantasizing, First Time, Hand Jobs, Hand Kink, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Partnership, Repression, Rough Sex, sex with strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 04:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4046281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnetism_bind/pseuds/Magnetism_bind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy's dreamed of Alfie Solomons' hands on him. It doesn't mean he *has* to have the real thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Your Hands On Me

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt.
> 
> 'What if Tommy was secretly, despite his best efforts to suppress it, really into the idea of being bossed around by Alfie? And obviously he'd NEVER admit it, so he just utilizes his very vivid imagination when he's alone, or finds guys of about the same build as stand ins. I guess bonus points if you can figure out a way to have Tommy get his hands on the real thing too? (maybe Alfie picks up on a rumor?)'

Oh, it would be a delight, it would. To touch the man, feel his hands, and know the weight of his body upon his own. It would be satisfaction beyond satisfaction. That doesn’t mean Tommy has to admit it. Not the wanting of it or the fact that the mere sight of Solomons walking to him across the length of the room fills him with a peculiar rush of lust, from his very boots to his skull. Doesn’t change the fact that the man is a bastard, causing nothing but trouble and sorrow for Tommy. The deal with him is only getting done out of pure necessity. Tommy would soon as stab him in the gut otherwise. But that doesn’t stop him from needing to do business with the man. Needs must when the devil drives – and it is a deal with the devil that he’s making, there’s no mistake about that. He’s tangled in the mire nearly as deep as he can be.

 

*  *  *

 

It’s nearly dawn. Tommy rolls over on his back and exhales. It’s no good. There’s no chance of sleep tonight. He draws another deep breath and releases it.

During the day it doesn’t trouble him. He’s used to keeping his secrets close to him where they're safe. But at night, when he’s alone and there’s reason to keep up his defenses, that’s when he thinks on Alfie Solomons and the look of him.

He knows that this bargain with Solomons is heading into dangerous territory, but he needs it desperately. What matters is that Solomons needs it too. There’s no reason it can’t work. Except the man is a commanding fuck who waltzes through his brewery like he’s a bloody king.

It’s just that, pure and simple. He speaks and Tommy’s body wants to give over to him. Solomons is magnificent. A beast of a man. He looks at Tommy like he wants to devour him, and maybe just maybe, Tommy would let him.

He’s never wanted a man like this before.  Oh, there had been boys at school. That was understandable. After them there was his trench mate in the war. Underneath all the mud, he’d been fair and gentle-eyed with a quick laugh. Nowadays Tommy glances at gentlemen on the street, wondering if they, like him, would slip off into an alley if they caught each other’s eye just so. But this, he didn’t know what to make of it.

If there was no deal on the table, Tommy would be half tempted to try his chances, drinking Solomons’ whiskey and telling him just how sweet it was. But there’s no place for that in this business. Tommy can’t take the chance, and he’d never risk the chance even if he had it to begin with. Not with a man like Solomons. He’d tear Tommy apart with his bare hands for even suggesting such a thing. So Tommy’ll keep his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself. That’s all reason and logic of course. Try telling that to a man’s cock.

Solomons is an animal – not just in his bulk and his mass, in his muscle, in his manner. The beard he strokes with whiskeyed fingers. He’s quick, shrewd and sure. Not acting until he’s ready. He’s the sort of man Tommy knows will bring nothing but trouble in the end.

But somehow those are the most fun.

 

 *  *  *

 

Tommy's not at the Garrison for once. He didn’t feel like making small talk. Instead he’s finding himself distracted. There’s a man down at the end of the bar who’s a got similar build to Solomons. Tommy watches him over his smoke. When the man turns in his direction his disappointment is palpable. Of course it's not Solomons.

But then...Does it have to be?

He’s had just about enough to drink to make him reckless. Tommy waits until the man looks down the bar at him, and holds the gaze steady. The man’s expression sharpens. Tommy downs the last swallow of his whiskey and nods at the door.

He takes the man out into the back alley. He's never wanted anything like this before, and not with a brute of a man like Alfie Solomons. To even indulge such a notion is like betraying himself. Tommy tells himself to get over it. It’s one night in an alley. It doesn’t mean anything.

"What'll it be?" The man looks at him. His shirt is dirty, but his shoulders are broad. 

 “I want your hands on me.” Tommy says. “I want…” His tongue stutters on revealing his need. “I want you to be rough.”

For what it’s worth, the man tries. But clearly his heart isn’t in it. Or most likely his cock. Or he’s worried of going too far. He manhandles Tommy dutifully up against the wall and pushes him to his knees, and it isn’t enough. But it’s still good.

It isn’t enough. But it’s as good as he’s ever going to get. Tommy accepts this and lowers his head.

 

 *  *  *

 

Later Tommy fists his cock in bed, eyes closed, thinking of Solomons. It would be brutal with him. If he didn’t shoot Tommy stone cold dead for even thinking of it. Tommy licks his lips. The fear is half the anticipation. It’s perfect in his mind. Solomons would have Tommy on his knees all right, not letting him up until he begged for it, and even then, it would be how Solomons wanted it.

_He’d cup the back of Tommy’s head, and hold him there, maintaining the pressure until Tommy’s knees fairly aching from kneeling on the pavement. He’d shift his weight and Solomons would go still. He’d haul Tommy up by his hair and then he’d shove him down on all fours, knocking his legs apart._

_“Stay there.”_

Tommy wipes his hand on the sheets and sighs. In the dark there’s only him, and the faint street light glow through the window.

 

*  *  *

 

He goes up to Camden to finalize the agreement, only to find Solomons too busy to see him.

“I’ll wait.” Tommy says to the thin-faced assistant. This is fucking ridiculous. Should have known Solomons would pull something like this. He thinks Tommy has nothing to do but wait around to see him. He has other things to do with his time.

“Might be a while.” The man tells him, flat and bored, like he doesn’t give a shit if Tommy ever gets a chance to talk to Solomons.

Tommy just looks at him. “I’ll wait.”

And wait he does. For nearly three quarters of an hour. Tommy stands there, with his hat behind his back, studying the advertisements pasted to the wall. He can feel the assistant’s eyes on him from time to time, watching his back like a rat from its hole.

When the door to Solomons’ office finally opens Solomons stands there in his hat and coat, holding his cane.

“You still here then?” He eyes Tommy, tapping his cane against his thigh.

“I believe we had an appointment.” His voice is soft. In Birmingham the man on the other end of that tone would have pissed his trousers already. Alfie Solomons on the other hand merely shrugs.

“Walk with me, eh? It’s lunch time.”

Tommy falls into reluctant step alongside him. He wants his business done and over. “We could just discuss business and then-”

“Food first.” Solomons declares.

He leads Tommy down one dirty, smoky street after another. Tommy likes London, unlike Ada who only moved there to get away from the rest of them. Unlike Pol, who thinks there’s nothing but trouble in the city. He remembers the appeal of the country after a few hours. Smoke bellows out as they pass an iron works. Tommy smothers his cough into his coat sleeve. His eyes sting. He can taste the grit on his teeth.

“Birmingham boy.” Solomons lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll get used to it.”

Tommy does his best not to flinch away from that hand as it squeezes his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, for Solomons, but it could turn rough in a heartbeat. Solomons removes his hand to push open the splintered green wooden door of a pub he’s chosen. Tommy falls behind a step, relieved for the dim lighting as he adjusts his coat.

Solomons nods at the waiter who appears quickly to lead them to a table in the back of the room. The room’s quiet and low lit. If Solomons plans to kill him, this would work admirably. Tommy sits down across from the man. He removes his cap and sets it on his lap, keeping his left hand there as well.

Solomons orders for the both of them. Tommy doesn't protest. He leans against the wall, glad to have it at his back. Solomons removes his own hat. He’s probably got a gun in his coat pocket and another in his boot. Tommy tests the brim of his hat, the razor ready against his thumb.

“You ever have this before?”  Solomons asks as the waiter sets down two bowls of thick soup, dumplings bobbing about in the broth.

“Can’t say that I have.” The soup is good. There are spices there that Tommy tastes, but doesn’t fully register. He’s too busy watching Solomons. The man’s stood his cane against the wall. Tommy can see it out of the corner of his eye. Would he reach for that first or a gun?

After a few spoonfuls Solomons sets his spoon down and folds his arms across his chest, gazing at him. “You and me, we’re no fools.”

“That’s a generous start to the conversation.” Tommy replies. The cane first, probably.

The waiter reappears with their beer. Solomons nudges Tommy’s glass over to him, foam slopping over the rim onto his fingers. He sucks on his fingers, reaching for his own stein.

 _Christ in church on a Sunday_. Tommy takes a sip of beer and lets his thighs fall open under the table, trying to ease the ache there.

“We don’t trust each other.” Solomons clarifies. “That’s what I mean.”

Tommy’s grip tightens on his cap. “Trust takes time. We’ve only just started doing business.”

“Trust is for your mother, your father, who need to know that their children will take care of them in their dotage.” Solomons takes another sip and wipes his mouth. “You and me, we got no reason to trust each other.”

“On the contrary, I would say we have every reason.”

“Oh? And how do you reason that one?” Solomons is mocking him, making no bones about it.

“That very business. We both want it to succeed, to profit. And that will only happen if we’re honest with each other.”

“You think I’m fucking lying to you?” Solomons’ hand tightens on his glass. If he swings that Tommy has about seven seconds to get out of the way.

“I didn’t say that. I merely said we needed to be honest if we’re going to achieve trust.” He’s mad if he thinks he can pull this off. He’s probably mad for even sitting down with Solomons in the first place.

“You this long winded with all your business talk?” Solomons inquires. He finishes the rest of his beer.

“No.”

“Good. Then shut it.” Solomons nods at the waiter who brings them another round of beer. They finish their soup.Tommy eats, drinking sparingly, pacing himself. At last he’s removed his left hand from his cap. Solomons eats and drinks heartily, telling Tommy of his cousin who had gotten married last week and now his aunt keeps inviting him to dinner and trying arrange women for Solomons to meet so he can be next.

“If I wanted a wife, I’d have a wife.” Solomons takes a drink of beer. He licks his lips, looking at Tommy. “What about you?”

“No.” Tommy murmurs. “Not married.” He’s tired then, of the whole dirty business, dealing with Solomons, managing the boys back home, all the complete shit of it all. In the middle of everything, the future nags at him terribly. What if it doesn’t all come off like he hopes? What if he has fucked it up? What if this deal with Solomons is just the first in a long line of missteps?

“You all right?” Solomons cocks his head, looking at him closely. “You look a bit under the weather.”

“London might be a bit much for me after all.” Tommy reaches for his glass again. He’ll finish this beer, and then he’ll be gone. He’s ready to sleep in his own bed.

“Going back to Birmingham tonight?”

“Not tonight.” Tommy takes out his watch. “I have another appointment in the morning.” He glances up to find Solomons studying him, weighing his next words carefully.

“Got a good room for the night?”

Tommy’s hand drifts towards his cap again. “Decent enough.”

“Not too expensive I hope. Steer clear of those greedy fucking bastards on the high street.” Solomons punctuates this statement with a jab of his finger.

“I’ll remember that.” Tommy took a final sip of beer. “So we have an agreement then, the shipment’s to be delivered Friday.”

“Friday, it is.” Solomon agrees, rising to his feet. He puts out his hand and Tommy shakes it, barely allowing his palm to register the strength in Solomon’s own.

“Be seeing to it yourself, or you sending one of your brothers?” Solomons inquires casually.

“Does it matter?”

Solomons shrugs again. Tommy watches his shoulders, savoring the taste of his own lust on his tongue.

“It’s your deal, in’t it?” Solomons leans in. “Round here, a man takes care of his own business.”

“What if the man’s busy?” Tommy says before he catches himself.

Solomons just smiles. “A man’s too busy to tend to his business, he’s looking for trouble.”

Tommy holds his gaze, not letting the man stare him down. If Solomons changes his mind now, he’ll let it go. He’s not going after the man with his cap in his hands, begging.

“Friday then.” Solomons says.

“Friday.” Tommy repeats. He sticks his hands in his pockets and goes.

 

 *  *  *

 

He goes back to his room and spends the night lying on his back, thinking of Solomons’ hands.

 

 *  *  *

 

On Friday he sends John in his place. He’s got business to tend to in Birmingham, can’t be running up to London every time there’s a shipment. It’s not like John’s not capable of seeing to it. Tommy doesn’t have to be there.

Still when John returns Tommy checks with him, just to make sure everything went smooth.

“How’d it go?”

“Fine.” John takes out a match to light his cigar. “That Solomons is a bull, eh.”

“Careful he don’t run you down.” Tommy says. He waits a minute, and then, before he overthinks it, “He say anything?”

John reaches for the whiskey, looking at him. “Like what?”

“Nothing.” Tommy turns back to his business.

 

 *  *  *

 

The next time Tommy finds a fighter, someone used to violence who doesn’t mind the request Tommy makes of him. He fucks Tommy in the back room of a pub, leaving deep bruises on his hips and neck. Tommy closes his eyes, keeping it going as long as he can. Afterwards they share a cigarette and Tommy watches the man’s mouth. His lips don’t fill Tommy’s cock with blood, not like a single twist of Solomons’.

He sleeps a little better that night, but in the morning, his satisfaction’s turned stale. The bruises last two weeks, staring back at him in the mirror.

 

 *  *  *

 

It’s a month later that he has to go back up to London to discuss the details of the next shipment. This time at least Solomons doesn’t keep him waiting more than a few minutes. His assistant ushers Tommy righto into the office and goes out, closing the door after him.

They argue out the details. Solomons wants more percentage. Tommy wants more product. It takes most of the afternoon and when it’s done Tommy’s ready to be gone.

Instead Solomons takes out his whiskey and pours them each a drink. “Come on, one drink, and then you can run along home to Birmingham.”

Tommy lets that one slide and takes a sip. It’s the good stuff. He wonders what exactly Solomons is trying to sweeten by offering that.

Solomons clears his throat. "So I might have heard a little rumor about you."

"And what rumor might that be?" Tommy holds steady.

"That you like to find men and take 'em in alleys and pay 'em to do things to you." His eyes bore into Tommy relentlessly, watching his every breath. "Men who look like me."

"Is that right?"

"That's what they say." Solomons says. "Now as to whether it's true or not." He dangles it there. Bait for a trap, and if Tommy takes the hook, what then?

"And if it were?"

Now’s the moment. Either Solomons will consider it an insult and be offended, or he’ll be amused and make Tommy the laughing stock of Camden Town. So which will it be? Broken bones or the cost of his reputation? Solomons just waits, letting Tommy sweat it out. The worry and fear pricking at him like a knifepoint to his neck.

“Come with me,” Solomons brushes past him and goes out, down the narrow corridor. Tommy glances at the door leading out to the street. He could always run for it. Squaring his shoulders he walks after Solomons.

At the end of the corridor there’s another door. Solomons pushes this one open, gesturing for Tommy to step through first. He does, aware of how close Solomons is in that moment, his shoulder leaning into Solomons’ outstretched arm as it holds the door.

He steps through. They’re behind the bakery. The view of the river is dark in the evening, the air over the water chilling to the skin. Tommy shivers.

Solomons rubs his hand against his cheek, assessing. “Well?”

“Well?” Tommy glances briefly over his shoulder, unwilling to turn his back on the man altogether but wary of a possible attack from behind. It’d be easy for someone to make their way along the back of the bakery and come up to them.

He looks back to him and Solomons reaches out a hand, cupping his groin. Tommy freezes. They stand there, the air growing chillier. Solomons regards him unblinkingly.

“Now, see, there.” Solomons says at last. “That would have been the moment to pull away, voice an objection, if you had a mind to.”

His fingers stroke Tommy lightly through his trousers. Their touch is light as air, but oh so warm. Tommy can feel the heat of them through the material. He thinks of them on his bare cock.

He can’t ask. He knows Solomons. The danger of it hammers at Tommy’s chest. He can’t ask.

Solomons tugs him forward and Tommy goes until they’re nearly chest to chest. He looks at Tommy and starts unfastening his trousers. Draws Tommy out and then his other hand is on Tommy’s cheek, pulling his gaze back to Solomons. “Look at me.”

The hand holding him strokes Tommy in a long motion. The fingers cupping his cheek press deep into his skin. Arousal floods him. Tommy licks his lips; the fleck of his tongue nearly catches Solomons’ fingers. He slows his stroke, rubbing his thumb over the head of Tommy’s cock. Teasing the slit with his nail.

“Takes a brave man to admit his desire.” Solomons breaks the silence. Tommy holds his tongue. Has he admitted anything by not saying a word? He still can’t speak.

“You are a rare creature, Thomas Shelby.” His fingers stroke Tommy’s cheek and then he presses his thumb over Tommy’s lower lip. Tommy parts his lips, still gazing silently at him, and the thumb slips inside his mouth. The hand on his cock moves in a slow, tantalizing rhythm. Tommy sucks hard at the thumb, willing Solomons to go faster.

“Did I say to do that?” Solomons takes his hand off, still cupping Tommy’s mouth. “Did I ever?”

“Nno-o.” Tommy splutters, Solomons’ thumb still inside his mouth. His other fingers slide inside, over his tongue.

“You want this.” Solomons’ fingers press down on his tongue, holding Tommy’s answer for him, waiting. This time he has to speak.

Tommy gags, but doesn’t struggle. “Yes.”  The word’s thick, saliva slicked.

Solomons slides his fingers over Tommy’s teeth. “Want to bite me?”

Mutely Tommy shakes his head. The fingers linger and then are removed.

All this time his cock has jabbed out between them, naked as dawn, waiting for attention. Now Solomons wraps his fingers round him once more and squeezes him, making Tommy wince.

Solomons jerks his head. “Against the railing.”

Tommy rests his hands on the cold metal, still facing him. Solomons quickens his strokes, making his hips buck embarrassingly into the man’s fist. When he comes Tommy bites down hard, strangling the moan. He’s never moaned. He will not for this man.

Solomons looks down. “Funny, isn’t it? How easy it is to get a man to do what you want once you have him in the palm of your hand.”

Tommy swallows, giving himself a moment before he answers. “And what is it you want me to do?”

He’s tired of men thinking they can control him. He knows how to take orders. Doesn’t mean he likes it. Business is business and bargains mean compromise. But there are lines he still won’t cross. No matter how much he wants.

“Nothing in particular.” Solomons gives him one long final stroke before releasing Tommy. “As of yet.”

“Sounds about right.” Tommy murmurs. Solomons eyes darken and then he laughs.

Still laughing he holds out the hand that has Tommy’s spunk on it. “Clean it off.”

It’s a curious thing to realize what you will do for a man. Tommy takes the man’s hand by the wrist, turning his palm upward. Solomons looks momentarily surprised as he lowers his head slightly to lick at the lingering traces.

When he straightens up here’s something twinkling in the corner of Solomons' eyes. Amusement possibly. It’s not cold, no, it’s the opposite of that and Tommy resists the urge to examine it closer.

“What?” He asks, gruff, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I meant with your handkerchief.” Solomons eyes his own palm, newly licked clean. “But this will do.”

“Oh.” Tommy feels a blush rising in his cheeks.

Before he say anything else, Solomons grips his face in his hands and kisses him. The mouth on his is hard, wanting, pressing against his own, taking Tommy for everything he has. The groan escapes him then, full of need. He doesn’t realizes he’s moved in closer, leaning in to Solomon’s embrace. His legs are trembling, weak-kneed at the man’s touch.

How’s he come to this?

Solomons’ beard scrapes his cheek. Tommy drags his mouth off at last, breathless.

Solomons looks and looks and looks at him, and doesn’t say a fucking word.

“Well?” The word’s harsh, but he has to know.

“See you on Friday for the shipment.” Solomons says. “If you go down the left there, it’ll take you back out to the street.” He turns to the door.

“Is that it?” Hysteria coats Tommy’s lungs. He feels like he can’t fucking breathe. Alfie Solomons fucking kissing him one minute, and now he’s giving him directions in the next.

Solomons stands in the doorway, lit by the light down the hall. “For now.” He licks his lips and nods at Tommy, and goes in.

 _For now_. Tommy repeats all the way back to the boat. _For now means there’s more to come._

 

 *  *  *

 

On Friday Solomons watches the cargo being loaded into the boats, his bravos beside him. Tommy stands on the dock with John, watching the river. He can feel the man’s eyes on him and when the last crate is loaded, finally drags his gaze up to meet it.

Solomons jerks his head and goes along the back of the bakery. Tommy tells John to go along back to the boat and follows.

 

 *  *  * 

 

Solomons, and that’s still how Tommy thinks of him in his mind, has Tommy suck his cock on a sunny late afternoon with the sound of the ferry in the distance.

His jaw aches but Solomons allows him just enough space to breathe and move and that's all. His hand rests on Tommy' s head. Tommy breathes in the scent of him.

After he’s swallowed Solomons keeps his cock in Tommy’s mouth while he smokes. Tommy thinks of pulling off, but Solomons’ hand twists in his short hair and he stays there on his knees.

At last he draws Tommy up, pushing him against the bricks as he undoes his trousers. This too is all at Solomons’ speed. He runs his hand, too rough, too dry, down the length of Tommy, rubbing, stroking quick and hard until Tommy arches back, helpless in his release. Painful, it is that, he decides, when it subsides and his cock is lying there limp once more. The sort of pain that leaves him looking forward to the next time.

 

*  *  *

 

The next time they don’t go out back to the alley. Solomons wraps up his business and then hurries Tommy out the door into the London streets. He takes him to a curved street row of terraced houses, all fenced in with their tidy little gardens. The rooms are dark, no lamps lit in the windows. Solomons opens the gate to one and goes in, letting Tommy catch the gate before it clicks. 

“Who lives here?” Tommy looks up at the house. It’s a bit late for a meeting.

Solomons produces a key from his pocket and unlocks the front door. “I do.”

He’s brought him to his home. Tommy can barely believe it. He looks around as Solomons lights a lamp in the front room and carries it down the hall to the kitchen.

“You keep house for yourself?” Tommy asks, too curious not to. It’s not at all what he expected. He’s never pictured Solomons at home.

“I have a woman who looks after the place, once a week, but I prefer to cook for myself.” Solomons sets the lamp down on the kitchen table. It frames the room in unexpected warmth. Tommy takes his time looking around the kitchen, taking in the details, (the kettle on the stove, the lace curtains at the windows, coal bucket half-filled) before looking back at Solomons.

“Why’re we here?” Tommy asks.

Solomons glances at him. “You’d rather fuck in the alley? It’s getting colder, eh? This is a bit better. Warmer.” He gives Tommy a measured look.  

“This is really your house?” Tommy looks around, still faintly surprised by the notion.

“You think I want to fuck you behind some slophouse?” Solomons makes a disgusted noise. “Not half.” He moves closer to Tommy.

“Wouldn’t have thought you’d want to fuck me in your bed either.”

He stops as Solomons looks at him. “Thought wrong then, didn’t you?” His hand curls around Tommy’s neck. “Besides, who said anything about a bed?”

He bends Tommy over the kitchen table, pressing him flat on the surface. The smooth wood of the table is clean, the kitchen is neat as a pin. Tommy takes this in distractedly. Solomons pulls his trousers down. He’s lying on his belly in Alfie Solomons’ kitchen. There’s some sort of oil sliding down the crease of his ass. Solomons' thumb circles his hole before pressing in. He massages Tommy’s ass until he’s pressing back, wanting more. Solomons flattens his thumb, fucking into his hole until he pauses, just holding it there.

And then he adds another finger, easing and teasing, until Tommy’s gasping, cock leaking, pressed tight between his legs.

“Now.” Solomons pulls back, leaving him empty. “Take your boots off and trousers off, and go upstairs to my bedroom.”

“What?” Tommy’s dazed.

Solomons pulls him back by the hair making his scalp tingle. “Strip yourself down and go wait in my bed.”

Tommy slowly removes his boots, scarcely believing he’s doing this. Solomons leans back against the table, merely waiting. Tommy pulls his trousers down and takes them down as well. The press of his cockhead leaves a damp patch against the front of his underclothes. Solomons gazes at it, reflectively.

“Go wait, I said.” He turns to fetch a bottle down from the cupboard.

Tommy goes. He’d wonder which room is Solomons but the man lives alone.  The first bedroom on the right it is then. A fire is laid, waiting to be lit. The bed is just waiting. Tommy stands by the foot of it, trying to make sense of it all. What the devil is he doing here?

He makes it to the doorway just as Solomons appears in it and looks at him. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Changed my mind.” Tommy says.

“Is that right?” Solomon’s arm clamps down and captures his neck, holding him there. “I don’t think you’ve really thought it through now, have you?”

“Let go of me.”

Solomons fights his grip, all but hauling him over to the bed. “This here,” his fingers waggle at Tommy’s shorts, “says differently now, doesn’t he?”

Tommy tries to squirm free without answering.

“What?” Solomons asks hoarsely. “What? I thought this was what you wanted?” He pins Tommy to the bed with his hands and stares. “Tell me then. Tell me.”

Tommy stares up at him. “How do I know _you_ won’t tell everyone?” He whispers the words.

Solomons gazes down at him. “You want assurances. This is the best I can offer.” He tugs at Tommy’s thighs, dragging his shorts down. Gives Tommy a brief look and then sets his mouth upon him.

As assurances go, Alfie Solomons’ mouth on him is very good indeed. But who would believe him if he were to tell? And then it comes to Tommy. It would mean the ruin of both of them if it were to come out. That’s what Alfie’s given to him in its truest form. And yes, somewhere during this, it’s becomes Alfie’s mouth on his cock, and Alfie’s hands leaving deep fingerprints on his skin., Alfie's beard scratching his thighs.

His fingers rest on Alfie’s hair, testing. Waiting to see if the man will tolerate the touch. Alfie does, leaning into his grasp, as he moves his tongue over Tommy. Tommy leans his head back, spreading his knees a little wider. Alfie runs his tongue up the line of his cock, and down again, slipping his lips around the head.

He leaves off just as Tommy feels himself letting go. “No.”

Alfie pushes himself up, lips glistening with the sheen of it. Tommy wants to kiss him.

“You’ll come when I say so.” Alfie gazes at him. “And not a fucking minute sooner.”

His hands rest on Tommy’s bare thighs. “Now on your back.”

“Why?” Tommy places an arm behind his head as he lies back upon the mattress. Casual, still playing at it.

“Because I want to see your face.” Alfie is matter-of-fact as he removes his clothes.

Tommy is struck by the words. “Do you?”

“Shhh,” Alfie turns back to him.

He's intimidating, gloriously so, standing in front of Tommy as he's stretched out on the bed. Tommy's sucked the other man's cock, but seeing it like this, seeing Alfie naked is different. He stays silent as Alfie sinks down on the bed.

His hands trace over every inch of Tommy, cupping his jaw, thumb over his lips, slipping inside his mouth. Tommy's breathing hard, waiting, right on the verge, and Alfie holds him prisoner there.

He spreads his thighs apart as Alfie’s fingers played over him, opening him once more.

“Look at me.” Alfie commands, staring down at him, with that bright-eyed intensity that nearly makes Tommy come apart every time they’re in the same room.

“I’m looking.” Tommy raises a hand, running it along Alfie’s jaw, combing it through his beard. Alfie turns in towards his hand, kissing his palm. And then he reaches down to grip Tommy’s wrist and places it down by his side. He catches the other one too, holding him there as he presses inside.

Tommy bites down as Alfie enters him. The man’s hips press sharp into him. He’ll be bruised tomorrow.

Alfie slinks a hand between them to tug at his cock. He hasn’t said a word since he told Tommy to look at him and now Tommy finds himself wondering what he’s thinking. Why did he want this? And why did he want it to happen here in his own home?

Now Alfie’s mouth moves over him slowly, kissing his cheeks, his open lips, his forehead. Tender. Tender. It makes him ache.

“Why’re you being gentle?” Tommy spits out. He can’t. The hair on the back of his neck is itching like crazy. Why is Solomons, and it’s Solomons again, doing this to him? Does he think Tommy weak?

“Shhh,” Solomons says, “I can do both you know?”

“But-“

“Maybe I want to be gentle with you.” Solomons looks at him out of the corner of his eye and then away again. “Maybe that’s what I want.”

“But I don’t.” Tommy didn’t come here for this.

Solomons presses him flat. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of.”

In Tommy’s experience that sort of statement is usually a threat. And not followed up by the kind of kiss that leaves his blood racing, pounding away through him like a racehorse loosed on the track, like the sea hitting the rocks and dashing away again before it’s caught.

He stares up at Solomons not quite understanding.

Solomons just chuckles. “You’re all the same, aren’t you? Never wanting to believe.”

He just leans down into him, pressing him, holding him, not kindly, not cruelly either, until all Tommy’s aware of is this space and the man’s hands on him. He drifts - blissful for a span of time he can’t measure. When he opens his eyes – when did he close them – Solomons smiles down at him. It’s definitely a smile behind that beard of his. Tommy stares at him, wondering only why he has the urge (incredible as it seems) to smile back.

He waits, his hips straining, cock straining too, half dripping and curved taut over his belly as Alfie thrusts deeper. This, everything between them, encompassed in one reckless fuck. Then again, it isn’t just once. All those exchanges behind the bakery. Those count too. It’s just this time is in Alfie’s own home. Tommy’s hands grip the sheets tightly as Alfie speeds up, every thrust stabbing home as a reminder of where he is, whose bed he’s lying in. Alfie wraps a hand over him, and strokes upward. Tommy comes with exquisite ease, spilling thickly over his hand.

Calmly Alfie wipes his hand on the sheet. He grips Tommy’s hand, half pulling him up, his back arching, and then, only then, does he come as well, gazing down at Tommy. There's surprise in his eyes and Tommy closes his own briefly again. 

*  *  *

Solomons rolls over on his back and stretches out. He seems unconnected now in this after moment. How had he known, Tommy wants to know that. What makes a man like him tick? How can you hold the knowing of someone in your hand and let it breathe, a heartbeat of a bird in rapid fleeting motion. It’s just business and nothing more, Tommy tells himself. It’s hard to believe that when Solomons rolls over on his side towards him and slips a hand over Tommy’s hip, easy as you please. He raises an eyebrow at Tommy, waiting for him to complain. Throw it off, cause a fuss, throw a punch.

Tom decides on none of this. Instead he leans in, eyes sliding down the length of Alfie Solomons, like it’s a sight he can see any day he pleases, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it.

“You like that.”

“Same as you.” Solomons’s hand squeezes his hip. “Do you think it matters?”

Tommy blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“So’s we liked it.” Solomons shrugs his shoulder and the muscles on him roll with the motion. Tommy’s fair distracted by the sight of it and no mistake.

“All it means is I know you, eh,” his thumb strokes Tommy’s hipbone. “And you know me, and there’s nothing more to be said.”

“Is that right?” Tommy doesn’t care to leave things loose in the wind, like yesterday’s forgotten wash, to be snatched from you the moment you look away. He likes neat and tidy, and Solomons is neither of those.

He leans in closer, cupping the back of Solomon’s neck with the flat of his hand. “And if I say there’s more to be said on the matter?”

“Speak your piece then, boyo.” Solomons tells him. His cock stirs under the sheets. Tommy can tell that well enough. He doesn’t even bother glancing down.

It makes him feel like a kid. You like it, but how _much_ do you like it? Christ, when was the last time he’d asked someone that? Had he ever? Tommy finds it hard to remember those short-trousered days. Glancing back over your shoulder quick-like, to see if a boy you liked was looking back at you. Course, it had been girls back then too because boys, well, boys were too much trouble. Couldn’t trust them to keep their mouths shut. And even at that age Tommy had had the notion that the church would disapprove of the things he wanted to do. That hadn’t stopped the looking though.

Even now, with his gut telling him this is a bad move, he still wants that surprised look back in Alfie Solomons’ eyes, to know again that he put it there.

“You think this is unrelated to the business at hand.”

Solomons shifts. “It doesn’t have to be.” He leaves it there for Tommy to make clear of what he’s saying.

“And I’m saying if we do this, then it’s related. It means our business is solid, yeah? You don’t double-cross me, and I won’t double-cross you.”

Solomons’ mouth twitches. “You talk this sweet to all your fellows?”

“I mean it.” Tommy’s serious. If he takes this risk, (he’s already taken it, he knows that, the moment he crossed Solomons’ threshold, the first time he let the man touch him, there’s no going back now), he's going all the way down this road.

“I know you do.” Solomons raises his hand to touch Tommy’s cheek.

For a second he thinks it’s condescending and then he lets himself feel Solomons’ palm on his face, just touching him. His breathing is still calm in his chest. Tommy wants to hold on to that, even if he knows you can’t keep peace with you always.

 

*  *  *

 

They linger there in bed. Alfie’s hand drifts down over Tommy’s hip again. Tommy turns over on his back, looking up at the roof.

“It’s a nice room.” The ceiling is a bit low but it holds the heat, and the furniture in it is good. The oak bedframe and the dresser in the corner are dark, good wood.

“Better with company.” Alfie gazes at him. “Drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Alfie gets out of bed and goes down the hall, naked still. Tommy lies there, hand on his chest, breathing deep and calm.

Alfie returns with a bottle of the white and two glasses. He pours, solemnly checking to make sure they are even in their amounts before passing one to Tommy.

Tommy sits up. “And what are we drinking to?”

Alfie sits beside him. “To partnership.” He holds up his glass.

“To partnership.” Tommy agrees. The glasses clink and Tommy brings his to his lips, eyes on Alfie’s mouth.

To the beginning of new things.


End file.
